


Take Me (Like a Vitamin)

by ladycleveland



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Drug Use, Dubious Morality, M/M, Party Scene AU, Secret Identity, Young Degenerates
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-03
Updated: 2013-07-03
Packaged: 2017-12-17 13:46:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/868241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladycleveland/pseuds/ladycleveland
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry is a broke party boy with a bad news boyfriend and not a lot else. Louis shows up one day in a fancy car and a suit and just keeps hanging around. <br/>Starring all the other boys as flatmates, on-off boyfriends, and assistants.<br/>Background mentions of Max George and other members The Wanted as the bad news boyfriend and associated villains respectively.<br/>Everyone is is trying their best, okay?<br/>There is way more going on than Harry realises.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Take Me (Like a Vitamin)

**Author's Note:**

> I've never written anything for One Direction before, and I thought this might be fun to try. I hope you enjoy it - but do bear in mind that I'm kind of vague about the explicit details of their families etc, and I intended it to be that way. Also there's probably a weird mix of slang. And I'm not really part of the hardcore party drug scene myself, so I sort of just ran with it. Let me know if you've got some corrections, or if you liked it, or even if you really hate it! xx

A sharp buzzing by his ear shocks him rudely awake. The alarm on his phone couldn’t care less that he only got in four hours ago, unmoved by his intense longing to roll over as best he can on this crappy couch and go back to sleep. Maybe his head is still spinning from last night, but it seems that his conscience and his wakeup reminder might be one and the same these days. It’s seven in the morning, Harry. Time to get up and go to work. Whose fault is it that you’re hung-over? Think of all those bills you need to pay. Harry struggles up onto his elbows to silence the bloody thing, and since he’s gotten that far, sits up for real. He’s feeling pretty shit – nothing serious, but all the usual; throbbing temples, aching bones, a familiar nausea in the bottom of his stomach. 

That’s the silver lining he clings to, staring into the chilly depths of the fridge – that even if they had anything more appetizing than half a bottle of diet coke or some yellowed celery, he wouldn’t be up to actually eating it. The kettle’s already passably warm and there’s a scrap of paper with a lipstick kiss next to a mug filled with instant coffee on the bench – looks like whoever Zayn brought home last night left not too long ago. Harry reads the note as he absently stirs hot water into his miserable breakfast.

Zayney – thanks for last night. Sorry I had to run, uni first thing. Call me! xx Ella ps. I could only find instant coffee – I owe you a real one!

Grabbing the pen she’s left, Harry adds a post-post-script. Drank your coffee. Deserved it. Ella is LOUD. love you. 

His reflection in the mirror above the kitchen sink is less than heartening – and there’s only so much that can be blamed on dingy fluorescent lighting. In Harry’s own opinion, his skin is a bit pasty. Quite red around the chin, and there’s definitely the possibility of a few spots on his forehead. His green eyes are generally quite nice (and it’s not only his mum who says so) but at the moment any niceness is eclipsed by how bloodshot they are. An attempt at a wide smile hurts the tired muscles in his jaw, plus he doesn’t reckon that it does any favours for the bags under his eyes. No bloody wonder Max ditched him last night before the pub closed; even his usually irrepressible curls are looking a bit limp.

All this poking about at his face means that he has to run out the door in last night’s clothes if he wants to be on time. He hasn’t been able afford a new iPod since his old one went missing so he sits slumped against the window on the bus trying to subtly fix up a glittery stain on his thigh whilst he eavesdrops on the conversation of the kids sitting in front of him. One girl is telling the other about her exam nerves –they’ve been studying for their A levels. Though she’d “much rather be doing anything else”, Harry gets a little twinge he doesn’t much feel like thinking about. The two girls can’t be more than three years younger than he is, if they’re in college, but god, it might as well be centuries ago that he was in their place. For a bitter moment, he thinks about leaning over and telling them both that A levels aren’t worth shit in the real world – but of course he doesn’t. He doesn’t feel like being the crazy bloke on the bus quite yet. Instead of exams and textbooks, he’s got a job he ought to be thankful for because it pays alright and it’s not very mentally taxing, so he’s not got anything much to be complaining about does he now? 

By the time the bus grinds to halt at his stop, Harry has nearly rationalized himself into a better mood. His mate Cara works at her dad’s pharmacy a few doors down from the cafe, and he usually drops by for a quick chat before the start of his shift – to update each-other on their lives since they said goodbye the night before, and compare hangovers. Today Cara’s taking full advantage of knowing Mr. Delavigne could never bring himself to fire her. She’s spread a full deck of what are possibly fancy playing cards out over the front desk, and only looks up from them when he smacks the little “ring if desk is unattended” bell. 

“Hi, what can I do for- Oh. What’s up?” Cara is much more enthusiastic when she realises she’s not going to be required to do any actual work just yet. “You look tired. Did you and lover-boy make up after your little tiff, then?”

Harry makes a vaguely negative noise and reaches over to flip over one of her cards. It’s an upside-down picture of a nice yellow sun. “I don’t know. Are these fortune-telling cards? What’s this one mean – is it going to stop being so grey and miserable outside?”

She snatches it back. “What do you mean, you don’t know? You two are probably the least functional couple of the year. And they’re tarot cards. You chose the Sun, which would be promising, except you chose it reversed so... your future’s uncertain. And you’re pretty miserable in general.”

He tells Cara that her cards are probably just predicting how miserable he’ll be if he gets fired because he’s late as she smears some cream under his eyes to “fix” them, but she only hums and asks, “do you ever think about ending it with –” 

“Don’t say it!” Harry breaks in. “There are no problems. We are very happy together. Simply ecstatic.” Her famously sculpted eyebrows are looking affronted so he sheepishly removes the hand covering her mouth. “Seriously, I’m fine. I know you don’t much like Max but that’s because you only ever see him when he’s pissed – he can be really sweet too.”

Cara puts on a big show of agreeing with him, gives him a boiled sweet from her purse and a kiss on the cheek, and then shoves him unceremoniously out the door.

When he finally clocks in at the cafe at eight, it feels like he’s already put in a full day. Tuesday mornings aren’t exactly flat-out, but there’s a steady stream of customers needing menus, coffees, cutlery and his expert specials recommendations. By now most of this comes automatically, but Harry really doesn’t mind the prospect of civilised interaction with civilised people, so he makes a conscious effort to stay present and make eye contact with the mix of businesspeople and hipsters as he takes orders and clears plates. After what must be hours and hours on table service he checks his phone – half past eight. Fantastic. The day passes just as he anticipated. Wake-up snapchat from Zayn around eleven, Cara pokes her head in to ask if he’s getting time for lunch (if only), general drudgery in between. As an outdoor table of ten wealthy looking women start collecting their things, Harry stacks their empty plates in his arms and heads out to the kitchen. When he nearly trips over someone’s fluffy white dog underfoot, it’s a miracle he doesn’t drop the whole lot. Heart still in his mouth, he rights himself and comes face to face with his manager, who takes him aside for a quiet word about “professional behaviour in the workplace.” Though he’d quite like to, Harry doesn’t try and protest that it’s not his damn dog, or how his behaviour would perhaps be more professional if he was allowed a break. Zayn would complain, he’d really let this arsehole manager have it, but that attitude’s probably why Zayn is awful at holding a steady job. A choice between personal integrity and keeping things smoothed over so they can make rent, is no choice at all. 

The sky’s still heavy, threatening rain when Harry leaves work. He’s exhausted, but he’s missed the bus and there isn’t going to be another one for about twenty minutes – might as well walk. He used to love going for walks in the countryside around Holmes Chapel, where he grew up, but there isn’t much opportunity in London. Running about all day has kept him busy, but his thoughts finally catch up with him as he counts cracks in the pavement. Before he moved to the big city to go to university, he’d never have imagined his life would turn out like it has. He’d been convinced he was going to become a big shot lawyer, defender of justice and human rights, hardly comparable to being a washed-up waiter. For past-Harry, there were no thoughts more thrilling than of dorms and courses and the house parties he’d attend. Walking across the lawns and sitting in lectures was all that he’d imagined it would be – until it wasn’t anymore. After about a year he dropped out. Anyway, current-Harry thinks to himself, he’s fine, isn’t he? He still sees his uni mates sometimes, and they’re always complaining about boring assignments and bitchy professors, he’s lucky to be free of all that.

When he and Zayn hit the town later, Harry’s sporting some serious eye glitter that’s already getting itchy and it’s a bit cold because his artfully stretched out t-shirt is meant to show his tattooed collarbones, not offer thermal protection. He might even have preferred to stay at home with the History Channel or something productive if not for how nicely his curls are sitting. They head for Scholar’s Bar, because it’s Harry’s night to choose where they go and Scholar’s, in Harry’s opinion, is barely ever a bad time. It’s always hectic, decent music, possible discounts if you know whoever’s bartending. The moment they’re swallowed up into the loud music and heaving bodies, Zayn floats away to say to hello to someone or other, so he makes his way to the bar alone. He could go for a fruity cocktail, if he had the money or someone to shout him. Instead he does a vodka and coke, light on the coke - because no matter how they mix it for you it costs four pounds. It’s pretty rank but starting to work its magic when Zayn appears at his elbow, an attractive woman in tow who is very happy to buy them both a cocktail. Not until she pulls out her wallet to pay does he get why – it’s a Prada one, and stuffed with gleaming credit cards. Harry wonders what’s happening in her life that she’s slumming it at Scholar’s– maybe she’s having an early mid-life crisis. He throws back both of his drinks and makes a bee-line for the dance floor where he’s joined by Cara and a few of her leggy, sparkly friends. They grind to whoever’s playing, the bassline echoing in his ribs, ‘til sweat beads at his temples and he can feel his heartbeat hammering in his chest. Zayn catches his gaze in the dark – he grins eagerly and beckons, and ah, yeah, why not. He’s okay but he knows he could be better, maybe a little of whatever Zayn’s got is all he’s been hanging out for.

“It’s so weird, though,” he tells Danielle. “During the day, like, I know every single thing that’s happening around me in order. Because it’s what happens every day. A Tuesday is a Tuesday. Tonight, it’s all messed up. I was standing over there, but now I’m right here, and there wasn’t anything in between!” 

Danielle doesn’t look as impressed as Harry feels about time playing tricks. She mixes great drinks, but she’s not known for being hugely sympathetic to people lying all over her immaculately polished bar. “That’s nice, Haz. You’re not going to be sick, though?”

He’s not sure how he responds because suddenly he’s propped up against a wall in the filthy toilets, on the phone to Max. Max doesn’t feel like coming to find him tonight, as he’s in the middle of something important. Business, not pleasure. You know how it is, love. Harry does know all about how Max’s business is. He knew, more than ever, about an hour ago when he and Zayn were in this very stall, shaking a tiny part of it out of a baggie and pressing it onto their tongues. If he could have felt anything except racing exhilaration, it might have been disappointment.

When Harry comes back down into himself he finds that he’s sitting on the curb outside the bar with his head resting heavily in the lap of the posh woman from before – Caroline – as she pets his hair gently and tells him that she’s just recently broken up with her boyfriend who was a bit of a dick, and that sometimes people just don’t turn out to be who you thought they were, but he isn’t to worry because he’s young and he’s got a lot going for him. He admits he thinks he might love and hate Max at the same time in the warm quiet of her car when she drives him home. He gives her a friendly peck, then wobbles across the street and up the stairs and through the apartment until he collapses into bed next to Zayn, completely wrecked. Even dreaming he can feel his blood buzzing feverishly. His phone alarm goes off the next morning at seven o’clock sharp. 

Rinse and repeat.


End file.
